


Before You Start, You’re Already Beat

by dulcepericulum (keziahrain)



Series: hold your head up [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 1990s, Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe, Billy Hargrove Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Biphobia, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Blow Jobs, Condoms, Denial, Gay Disaster Billy Hargrove, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild D/s, Past Abuse, Post-Season/Series 02, Power Dynamics, Semi-Public Sex, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Billy Hargrove, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27901804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keziahrain/pseuds/dulcepericulum
Summary: Billy didn't think Harrington would actually call him. Right away.Sequel to "Everybody's Looking for Something."
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: hold your head up [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043124
Comments: 16
Kudos: 98





	Before You Start, You’re Already Beat

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Femme Fatale" by The Velvet Underground. 
> 
> This is a direct sequel to "Everybody's Looking for Something" and probably makes more sense in that context. 
> 
> re: tags  
> Past Abuse/Abuse of Authority is in the past and doesn't involve main ship.  
> Biphobia refers to a teachable moment regarding what bisexuality really means.  
> Internalized homophobia is self-loathing/gay slurs. Please use caution. 
> 
> disclaimer:  
> This series is fiction about discovering kink in the context of abuse & lack of information and figuring it out from there; definitely not intended to reflect the safe & sane practice of bdsm. <3

  
  
  
  
  


Billy Hargrove first realized he had some wires crossed when a guy he was fucking at UCLA told him he wanted to beat him, and Billy didn’t run in the opposite direction. 

The guy happened to be his Psych 101 TA. Billy was taking the course to fulfill some bullshit requirement. He never expected to get cruised, but if there’s one thing Billy has learned, it’s this: queers are everywhere. Even when you’re not looking. 

There were even stealth queers in Hawkins, Indiana, for chrissakes. 

Anyway, they were messing around one night at the guy’s apartment, and he – Roger – said to Billy, out of fucking nowhere, “I want to whip the hell out you.” 

A normal person probably would’ve said, “Hey, screw you,” or knocked his lights out, or gotten up and left. But not Billy Hargrove, who is definitely not a normal person. 

At that point, Billy had seen the porn on the back shelf at the gay bookshops. He was no innocent. 

“You kinky asshole, you really wanna whip me?” he laughed. Maybe this was meant to be a joke. 

Roger didn’t even crack a smile. “Yeah. I want to take my belt to you.”

“Why?” Billy asked, his mouth going dry. 

Roger shrugged. They could’ve been discussing a backrub, which was something Billy _really_ couldn’t imagine getting from another guy. 

“I think you need it,” he answered. “That hot ass of yours is calling for a beating.” He paused. “Unless you don’t think you can handle it.” 

Billy considered for a moment, refusing to be the first to look away. So Roger wanted to play chicken, huh? Arrogant prick. 

Billy Hargrove didn’t back down from a dare.

“I better get an A on the midterm for this,” he grumbled. 

Later, Roger was in the shower. Billy was left naked face down on the bed, feeling nothing but the hot steady throb of welts from shoulders to knees. Roger had tied his wrists to the bedposts, beat him for a long time, and then fucked him between his raw thighs. 

It hurt so much Billy had started to cry. 

And then, when Roger finally beat him off, he came so powerfully he’d cried even harder.

////

Harrington calls the next day.

Or technically he calls the same day. Billy left Steve’s apartment around one in the morning, and Pretty Boy follows up a mere nine hours later. 

Who does that?

“Uh, may I speak with Billy Hargrove?” the caller asks. Real good manners. Billy almost drops the phone. That dumb fucking voice. Not changed at all. 

Maybe a touch deeper. 

Billy shouldn’t have answered. In his defense, he’s expecting a call from the super about fixing the leaky kitchen faucet. 

“Harrington,” he responds. Last night, it seems, Pretty Boy decided they were on a first name basis; Billy begs to differ. 

“H-hi,” the Heartthrob of Hawkins stammers, like a middle schooler calling a girl for the first time. This is going to be painful. 

For beat there’s nothing but static. 

“What,” Billy says finally. 

“Doyouwanttogetbrunch?” 

_What have I done_ , Billy thinks. 

_This asshole doesn’t know me._

_Better cut this shit off at the pass._

“Fine,” he growls. “Where?” 

////

Billy puts on a clean version of his usual uniform: jeans, boots, leather jacket. 

Harrington picked an old-fashioned diner near his Lakeview apartment. It takes Billy about an hour to get there by public transportation. He spends all that time in hard, plastic seats. His ass is sore. Inside and out.

Normally, he would savor this feeling. But he can’t linger on the ache without picturing Harrington. And he can’t picture Harrington without picturing himself, shaky and sticky, creeping around that upscale apartment like a thief. Harrington on the couch where Billy left him (after considerable effort). Belly up, snoring, dead to the world. 

Billy had been moments away from walking clean out of there, back to a Harrington-free existence. 

And then he went and left his goddamn phone number. 

_On the fridge._

That memory makes him wince more than any tenderness of the flesh. 

////

Harrington’s already seated when Billy arrives. He immediately clocks Billy by the hostess stand and waves him over to a small booth by the window. He’s acting like a cross between a suburban dad and blind date. For a terrifying moment, Billy thinks Harrington will try and hug him, but Pretty Boy thinks better of it. 

Good. 

A dick in the ass does not entitle a guy to public touching. Harrington should know that. 

The waitress asks if they’re ready to order. Sure they are. Two coffees. Harrington orders pancakes. Billy can barely stop himself from rolling his eyes and asking if he wants a glass of milk with that. He orders the farmer’s breakfast. Two kinds of meat and eggs. Neil would approve. 

Off goes the waitress and now they’re faced with each other. It’s obvious that Harrington hadn’t planned this far. He just really wanted to see Billy again. That thought takes up residence in Billy’s gut – warm, heavy, strange. 

“So, uh....” Harrington begins. He’s tearing his napkin into tiny pieces. 

Last night, Billy had been in Harrington’s thrall. Obedient - in spite of himself - to some mysterious authority the guy exerted. 

In the light of day, it’s unsettling. A little humiliating. 

In their previous physical encounter, ten years before, Billy’s rage had been in the driver’s seat: rage at his dad, rage at himself, rage at his basketball rival for being the star of his wet dreams. He’d thrown all that seething, wounded anger at Harrington. At the time, he couldn’t trust himself to do anything else. 

The hookup in Harrington’s apartment didn’t feel like a redo of the fight. Not exactly. But it did feel like relief. Billy’s body could, at long last, react to Harrington the way it was programmed. They locked horns, but in the end, Billy was put in his place, where he belongs, and allowed to float for a while. 

Who knew Harrington had it in him? 

Billy had seen the infamous dick in the locker room, of course. But he never assumed Harrington knew how to use it. Or how to deliver a love tap in bed. Billy’s own dick hardens, right there in the booth, remembering the feeling of Harrington shoving him around, bending him over the arm of that couch. 

He’s never come from just a spanking before. 

Billy needs to keep this boner in check. That twinge in his ass isn’t helping. He adjusts himself and pays attention.

Awkward small talk over coffee. Harrington asks where Billy lives, and Billy reluctantly tells him the answer – Hyde Park. Harrington’s clearly dying to ask more, so Billy deflects with a story about his leaky faucet. That leads to a story about Harrington’s leaky tub. 

It’s boring, banal, but it gives Billy a chance to study the man opposite him. A face and body he obsessed over in high school; so vivid in memory, so intimate in reality, still so alien before him now. 

Billy notes – again – how the years have been good to Steve Harrington. He’s gained some heft. Fine lines gather at the corners of his eyes, and his brows are dark, coarse, and thick. Age grounds his beauty, lends him some gravitas. 

Billy smirks. Did he just associate Steve Harrington with “gravitas”? 

“Are you OK?” Harrington asks suddenly. His brown eyes are huge, concerned. 

“Yeah,” Billy rubs at his face, gets it together. “Sure. Tired. I just had a funny thought…” 

“No, ah, I meant. Are you OK after… after what we did?” 

Oh. 

That’s a boner killer. 

It’s gonna be like that, is it? 

Steve Harrington’s worried about poor little Billy Hargrove? 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Billy snaps. He’s good signalling when someone’s about to do something they’ll regret – a gift passed down from his father. 

Steve’s expression gets even more worried, but he doesn’t back off. In fact, he leans forward, intensifies their eye contact. And there it is: that unfazed stare that got Billy so worked up at the bar and in the apartment. 

Hello again, sir. 

“Last night was kind of intense,” Harrington answers patiently, steadily, like he’s given it a lot of thought in the – presumably – two hours he’s been awake. “You left in the middle of the night. I just…I just wanted to check on you.” 

“Aw, that’s thoughtful, Harrington. You afraid you hit me too hard? Is that it? You afraid your dick was too big? Worried you hurt me?” 

Billy keeps his voice low. Sometimes that’s more vicious than yelling. And, after all, they’re in polite company. 

Harrington looks dismayed, which is the idea. “Billy –”

“Let me assure you that I’ve had worse. On all counts.”

“What?” Now Harrington looks… something else. Billy isn’t entirely fluent in Pretty Boy, so he’s not sure. 

“I promise you, whatever you can dish out, I can take it,” is what Billy says next, which isn’t exactly what he meant to say. 

Before Harrington can reply, their waitress arrives balancing plates. “All right, boys, here’s your food!” 

By unspoken agreement, they take the recess and eat. Adult impulse control: Billy will never get over it. 

But even now, there always comes a point he can’t stand the quiet anymore. He downs some coffee and pitches a new subject. 

“So. I really thought you’d be hitched and breeding by now.” 

Never let it be said Billy Hargrove is not a conversationalist. 

After he’s done choking on his pancake, Harrington leans back in the booth, staring thoughtfully out the window. “I dunno, man. Five years ago, I did too. Most everything’s gone to according to plan. I’m working at my dad’s company.”

“So what’s the problem? Just haven’t found the right girl?” Billy asks. He’s genuinely curious. In high school, he regarded Harrington’s cookie-cutter life with equal parts contempt and envy. 

Harrington eyeballs him meaningfully. “After last night, I think you can put it together.” 

Billy chews this over. “But you said you were bi. Don’t you like both? Can’t you just…choose to, like, play it safe? Get a nice traditional thing going in the ‘burbs?” 

The sigh that escapes from Harrington is world-weary. “No? I mean, yes, I like both men and women. I really do. I loved my girlfriends and I loved…you know…sleeping with them. But I don’t think it works like that.”

Despite years of enthusiastic fakery, Billy has never been attracted to women. He has nothing to offer, so he waits for Harrington to continue. 

“It’s just...for years, there was something holding me back from settling down,” Harrington says, his gaze turned more inward than out. “Like, this feeling I wasn’t ready, that something else was out there. And then, a few years ago, I finally began to realize I was into guys. I only worked up the courage to start visiting bars last year. I lurked around like a creep for months before I started actually talking to people. Hooking up. Going home with guys sometimes. It’s all really confusing. I still don’t know what I’m doing most of the time. And now, it’s like I’m always thinking about…I can’t turn it off. I thought maybe a guy was flirting with me on the L. On my _commute_! Is that crazy?” 

He glances down shyly. Billy hates that it’s adorable. 

“You’re just learning how to cruise, Harrington,” Billy says. “You know, it’s like a whole secret language for guys who wanna fuck guys. There are rules – eye contact, accidental touching, bathroom code, shit like that. It just takes time. But once you crack it, it doesn’t matter where you are, because there are homos everywhere. You can be in Boystown or Hawkins. There’s always a wardrobe to faggot Narnia.” 

Harrington doesn’t seem reassured. “I guess my point is, I don’t know what I want for my life, not really. But right now, I feel like I’m making up for lost time, having these, um, these _experiences_ I didn’t know I could have. I think I have to get something out of my system before I make a big life decision. Does that make sense? I don’t think I could just _choose_ to be a random girl’s husband right now and stop wanting…you know…”

“This?” Billy suggests, gesturing to himself.

Harrington flushes. Answer enough. 

////

They finish their meal, Harrington pays up, and then they’re ambling through a Sunday afternoon. It’s a lot warmer than yesterday: low 50s. What is his life that Billy now finds this warm?

Billy’s headed toward the bus stop. Harrington’s apartment just happens to be along the way. They’re just two guys walking in the same direction. Nothing faggy to see here, folks. 

When they get to the building, Harrington has an obvious internal argument with himself. Then he turns to Billy and blurts,“You wanna come up?”

It’s tempting. Harrington’s a preppy treat: black wool peacoat, designer jeans, Adidas sneakers. His hair is a very sexy catastrophe. 

“Nah, I gotta get to work,” Billy lies. “But how do we access the alley behind your building?” 

Predictably, Harrington is without guile. With a big, confused frown on his face, he lets them into the building and leads Billy through the shiny lobby, down a small utility hallway, and out a rear entrance into a well-kept, quiet, and deserted alley lined with dumpsters and bins. 

Perfect.

Billy does a quick perimeter check then turns to find Harrington standing with his hands on his hips. 

“What the hell, Billy?” 

“You’re way too trusting, Steve,” he answers.

Harrington raises an eyebrow like an exasperated sitcom mom. 

“You just brought me back here, no questions asked,” Billy continues. “Like, did you wonder about my plan at all? What if I wanted to murder you? Or beat you up again? Bring back those good old high school d–”

He’s cut off by Steve grabbing him by the jacket and slamming him against the building’s greystone wall, right between two large dumpsters. It’s such a familiar sensation – a hard surface against his back, a slightly taller man boxing him in. Muscle memory kicks in and Billy freezes on cue, the taste of adrenaline in his mouth.

_He’s mad –_

Billy braces himself and shuts his eyes. He’s wholly unprepared for the sudden bite of teeth on his neck, biting and sucking like a fucking vampire. It sends shivers through him, a sweet electricity jolting him from the past to present. 

Steve’s bitter coffee breath fills his nose, and Billy’s so fucking hard it hurts. Something has to be done. As if sensing this, Steve opens his fly for him and liberates his dick from its confines. 

And now Steve’s jerking him off with dry yanks; Billy’s dick bounces almost joyfully, and Billy wants to laugh, except he’s already coming, the orgasm shaking him hard and fast like a freight train passing through. 

As usual, he barely makes a sound; Steve gasps, perhaps surprised by the sudden appearance of cum in his fist. 

After a moment, he wipes his hand on Billy’s jeans, then braces himself, leaning his hands on the wall on either side of Billy’s head. 

(Shit. This was his last clean pair. Now he really needs to visit the laundromat.)

They stand there for what feels like a long time, not quite touching, breathing each other’s air. Billy hopes the tremor in his legs isn’t obvious. Then Steve rouses, flips them, urging Billy down to his knees and opening his own pants. That enormous cock pokes right out. Billy bows his head in fealty.

“King Steve, we meet again.” 

“Be quiet and blow me,” Steve orders softly. “I know you want to.” 

And truthfully, Billy does want to – very badly. 

He’s better prepared this time; he reaches into his back pocket and removes a mint-flavored XL condom. It rolls easily over Steve’s colossal stiffy like a second skin, not too tight. Steve whines, sinking his hands sink into Billy’s hair, and Billy feels the tension in them, like he wants to apply force, urge Billy on. 

As if Billy has any hesitation around a hard cock. Especially this one. He uses his tongue to slick things up, his hands to build up pressure, and his mouth on the head to bring Steve closer and closer to the edge. Doesn’t try to deepthroat Steve or anything like that; he doesn’t feel like gagging and choking today, out here in the open. 

Billy enjoys how, under his attention, a guy stops caring about anything but his dick and the cum building up in it. Like nothing else matters. The room could be on fire, people could by dying, and most guys would want to be finished off. 

That’s some kind of power. 

Steve thinks so too because he’s _pulling_ harder on Billy’s hair, as Billy’s labors _pull_ _pull pull_ strangled words from Steve mouth: 

_Yeah_

_Fuck yeah_

_Billy_

Just when Billy thinks it can’t go longer it does, stretching them together past every limit until – finally – Billy’s lips and mouth are _pulling pulling pulling_ cum right out of Steve; he can feel its wet warmth filling the condom. 

He takes his mouth off Steve’s dick, wipes it with the back of his hand, and looks up. From this vantage point, the guy seems far away, huffing and puffing like a big bad wolf who’s been defanged, disarmed. 

_I did that_ , Billy thinks, rising from his knees. He wants to get close again, get up in Steve’s face, remind him who made him feel that way. _It was me. It was Billy Hargrove._

“Well, well, well,” he says, going for mean, because he can. Steve gazes back at him, clearly trying to focus. “What would all your little Hawkins buddies think if they could see you now, Steve?”

Steve pauses, considers, and then _shrugs_. 

“I think they’d wig out,” he answers. He doesn’t sound particularly upset about it. Then he smiles cheerfully: “What, are you going to tell them? Shout it from the rooftops? You said you didn’t care who knew.” 

Billy decides that Steve can dispose of his own fucking condom this time.

“I don’t,” he mutters. Maybe if he says it enough times, it will be true. “It’s been fun, Harrington, but I gotta jet.”

Steve looks up sharply from handling the rubber. “You just called me Steve a second ago. Can we please stick with that for now?”

Billy realizes, to his chagrin, that it’s true – at some point, recently, Harrington became Steve in his head. And out loud. 

Fuck. 

He needs to get some distance here, clear his head. 

“You know I don’t like people telling me what to do, _Harrington_ ,” he warns, his choice of words not accidental, starting to walk away. 

“Oh, I think you do,” Steve counters gently. “At least, the right people.” 

Billy scoffs, turns to leave, but not before he hears Steve murmur, “I’ll call you, Billy.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
